#bj twirling her hair and batting her eyes: haha your basement is sooo fuckin nasty haha

[aufucker]

Biohazard.

Strade / Billie Jean (OC)

I don't write often but. Wanted to do a Billie Jean @ Strade's basement thots thing

CW: insect mentions, dirty/gross environmental vibes,

☆☆☆

It wasn't polished concrete.

The floor, cold and porous, scraped lightly against your skin with every shift. If it was polished, it wouldn't be stained so.

It made your skin itch. It made you want to claw it off every time you thought of it; blood, old and soaked long into the stony floor, staining it with spatters and streaks of countless others from countless times.

In your brain, it was a biohazard. It was decomp. It was crawling into your skin like the maggots you've scraped away from floors, from walls, from furniture carefully carved away.

Even now as your eye drifted along the floor and the cabinets of tools used against your skin and bone, you could visualize the ethereal glow of luminol covering every inch of the room, brighter than Cherenkov radiation. The foam of enzyme solutions so plentiful it would seem like the ocean itself clawed through these walls in desperation for freedom.

Just like you.

You thought of the cabinets and the tools he had used on you, on others, both large and small, each having to be meticulously cut away and taken apart.

Separate the bio from the clean. The red and the black.

Separate the rot. You can't, anymore. It was becoming part of you. Burrowing into you like maggots.

Just like him.